To Protect and Serve
by Spooky-Girl
Summary: Sometimes I hate my job." One shot. Started out a short story and developed into a fanfic. Bosco's point of view, but could be any cop's. Rated mainly for language.


This wasn't originally a fanfiction. It was just something I wrote. But it applies, and if you think, maybe it's from a certain tough-guy cop's perspective. ;) Either way, I'm likin' it, so let me know if you do, too.

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Sometimes I hate my job.

Don't get me wrong. Most of the time I love what I do. And it's not the simplistic shit that makes me hate it when I do. I don't hate it because some jag-off's called me an asshole for shoving him in the car. I don't hate it because I got shot trying to stop some freakin' psycho from icing him and a bank full of people.

Naw. That's when I love my job. That's when I know I'm really doing something worth doing. When I know my presence on the street really matters. Fuck, a bullet wound to the side was more than a red badge of courage. It was a testament to the fact that some a dozen people were unharmed because I was there.

Hell, I don't even mind sitting outside some lady's house so her husband can't come back and off 'em all in their sleep. I'll talk shit, of course, how I ain't being payed to babysit or something. But truthfully? Maybe those people won't get a good night's sleep, but they'll feel a hell of a lot safer with me sitting outside. They'll know no one's getting inside without getting past me.

Hell, that's what I'm paid for, isn't it? To babysit the public? Make sure everyone's safe and out of harm's way?

To serve and protect, right?

Nah. That's not what makes me hate the job.

It's the fact that I saw a three year old girl sleeping in a closet, all dirty and underfed. I mean seriously, this kid was emaciated. I saw the fear in her eyes when I picked her up, and I knew what had been done to her, so I made sure to handle her extra carefully, not to snap at any of the medics who tried to get her out of my arms. I made sure I smiled real soft, real big, so she knew I wasn't gonna hurt her too. It's the fact that when they got that dress offa her, her back was all bruised and shit. Welts, y'know? Like someone took a wire hanger to her porcelain skin.

It's the fact that I saw this kid's mom two days earlier, in a fuckin' gutter. The fact that no one put her there but herself. I saw the tiny skirt and the stockings, and the top that left nothing to the imagination, and I easily figured out where she got the cash for the rock that landed her there. I saw the needle tracks on the arms that shoulda held her baby girl.

It's the fact that the kid's father, the lady's husband, was out there somewhere. Probably partying, boozin' it up while he shut the little girl away in the closet. Long as she didn't get into anything, right? Didn't matter to him that she was sitting in her own filth in a dress that fit her when she was one. Not anymore, though. But I had a feeling she wouldn't complain, because if she did, he had a surefire way to get her to shut up. You cryin'? I'll give you something to cry about.

It's the fact that I know what's goin' on and I can't do shit about it. I can't punish the mother, cos she's on some metal slab in the morgue, with a smile on her stiff face. I can't find the father and make him see what he did was wrong, and I can't beat the living shit out of him for doing it. I can't get the girl to stop looking at every face like it's some scary-ass monster in the dark, comin' to get her.

Coming to eat her all up.

Sometimes I really, really fucking hate this job.

But when I'm crouching down on the floor of the hospital, givin' this little girl a teddy bear and asking her name, she smiles. Not a real smile...just a tentative one, like she's trying it out. And when she's telling me she's "this many", I can hear CYS sayin' they've found her father at the bar, wasted out of his mind, and they're putting her into a home, I smile back at her.

I dance that teddy bear across her bony knees, makin' her bite her lips to hide that real smile. I dance it up her thigh to her arm, and nudge it into the crook of her elbow, and she takes it from me real gentle like. She takes it in her thin little arms and she holds it real close, real tight, like it's a living thing to be held with the utmost care.

I wanna take her mother and show her the way her girl's holding this stuffed piece of cloth and say that, _that_ is how you hold a baby. I wanna show her the look in her daughter's eyes as she regards the bear with huge eyes, like it's the only thing in the world deserving such love and devotion. I wanna tell her that's the way you treat your kid, your flesh and fuckin' blood. You treat 'em like they're the greatest thing in the world, cos they are. But I can't tell her this, because she loved the drugs more.

I'll see the father later at the Precinct. I'll see him behind bars, maybe tighten those cuffs just to be sure he can't escape. And when the metal digs into the tender flesh I know I'll wanna scream that, that's how your daughter felt when you shut her up. When you dug that wire into her fragile little body, you bastard, when you broke her. I wanna make him hurt, but I can't, and I hate that. I have to sit back and hope the justice system gives him what he deserves. Years of his life in jail, a stack of muscle and love named Bubba for a roommate, and never having a chance to see her again.

For now all I can see is the little girl as they introduce her to her foster parents. They look okay, but most people do from a distance. It's not till you get up close you can see who are the monsters and who are really human.

As they reach the end of the hall, I'm still standing there, and the little girl turns around. The social worker tries to grab her arm as she runs, but pulls back at the last second. You don't grab a kid like her. Not even innocently. Not ever.

She's runnin' as fast as her little legs will carry her, and she attaches herself to my legs. By the shoulders, I gently move her away, and kneel down to give her a proper hug, bein' sure not to put too much pressure on her back. She pulls away and smiles this toothy smile. An honest to god grin, really, and it makes her look like a fucking angel.

It's only when she runs back to those strangers, takes each of their hands, and gives that final look back before they escort her out that I remember exactly why I get out of bed these mornings.

Exactly why I love this job.


End file.
